


worth the wait to give you my heart

by bipolaryangxiaolong (rosesandcinnamon)



Series: wings of wax [11]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22299517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesandcinnamon/pseuds/bipolaryangxiaolong
Summary: It wasn’t like Yang didn’t know about Blake’s soft heart before Blake let her in on it. No one as edgy as Blake pretended to be would have a cat with the full name Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, or an extensive knowledge of Jane Austen, or poetry covering her walls. Yang’s just the one lucky enough to be close to her. They both know it.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Series: wings of wax [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/839634
Comments: 11
Kudos: 151





	worth the wait to give you my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in their established relationship and their adult lives.  
> I started this fic a year ago, and wanted to have it up for Valentine's Day. That didn't happen, obviously, but it's here now.
> 
> [This post](https://bipolaryangxiaolong.tumblr.com/post/180564588647/i-need-you-all-to-know-that-my-au-blake-claims) kind of introduces Mr. Darcy. He’s a gentleman. 

Blake’s entire library says volumes about her. Her bookshelves are the main feature of their living room. She has it all sectioned out, with shelves for British Romanticism, feminist literature, poetry, her favorite trashy romance novels hiding next to collector’s editions of Austen, her textbooks from undergrad stacked in the bottom shelves. They’re all meticulously organized, alphabetically lined up. There’s one book, though, that never makes it to the shelf. It follows Blake around, officially belonging in her nightstand, but living in her bag or on the coffee table. Yang keeps an eye on it. She knows the well-worn, underlined and annotated and highlighted and battered paperback copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ is a direct representation of Blake’s heart. She’s had it for an impossibly long time; Yang’s caught sight of _Blake Belladonna, Room 214_ in the careful cursive of a child on the inside cover. The idea of ten-year-old Blake reading Jane Austen never fails to make her smile.

The age of the book shows. The spine is more tape and love than glue, the binding permanently cracked to her favorite pages, tiny rips on the edges, faded sticky notes peeking out and curled into other sections. Several pages have completely separated from the rest, carefully tucked into their place. It’s not as if it’s the only copy Blake has -- there are one or two hardbacks in her shelves. There’s just something about the sentimentality of a book that’s seen her grow up. Blake can’t escape it.

She tries to reach for other books first, to be careful. As much as she loves _Pride and Prejudice_ , and that particular copy, its fragility is stressful. But sometimes, all she wants is to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, her cat, her girlfriend, and the worn and familiar paperback.

“Blake, your water’s boiling. What kind do you want?” Yang peeks around the wall between the kitchen and the living room, a smile lighting her face when they make eye contact.

“Oh, I’ll get it. Thank you,” Blake says, carefully placing her book on the end table before finding her way out of the blanket nest. Mr. Darcy makes a soft sound from the other end of the couch, watching her get up with a lazy interest. “It’s not your dinnertime,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. He chirps a reply; Blake pauses to pet him before going into the kitchen.

Yang is wearing a tank top, her hair pulled up. Blake likes it. She watches her cook, adjusting the pan, pulling the fridge open and leaning in to grab something, watches the way her muscles in her back and shoulders and arms move. “Your favorite mug is in the dishwasher, if you want to grab it,” Yang says, without turning away from the stove. Blake smiles, opening the pantry; she chooses a box easily and takes her clean mug out of the dishwasher.

“Remind me to empty that after dinner,” Blake says, ducking past Yang to grab the tea kettle. Yang steps back, just enough for Blake to get by, and close enough to kiss her head. Blake pours her tea with a smile. “How much longer?” she asks, glancing over.

“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes,” Yang says. “Long enough for you to read a little.” Blake nods, presses a kiss to her cheek before she takes her mug of tea back to the couch. Her blanket nest has been taken by her cat, of course. She expected it. Putting her mug down away from her book is easy, extracting Mr. Darcy from the warm layers is not. He protests with a meow. Blake kisses his tiny forehead as she places him on her shoulder, adjusting his weight as he curls into her.

Trying to get back into her blankets with her cat in one arm proves to be a very difficult maneuver. As she sits down, Mr. Darcy squirms. Blake steadies both of them by putting her hand onto the end table, accidentally shoving her book off of it.

It falls, straight down onto its spine. Blake gasps as she watches pages burst out of the split binding, fluttering down to join the rest. “No! Oh my God, no no _no_ ,” she says, dropping the blanket and Mr. Darcy onto the couch. She hears Yang call for her from the kitchen, and ignores the worried tone of her voice. Her book is irreparably strewn across the floor, the contents of her heart in margin notes and stickies and highlighted phrases let loose, unguarded. All she can do is stare as tears well up.

“Sweetheart, what-” Yang inhales as she approaches the wreck, a gentle hand on Blake's back. “Oh, no,” she breathes. “Blake…”

Blake sniffles, settles down on her knees to pick up the pages. “I needed a new paperback anyway,” she says, ignoring her own wavering, weak tone. Yang quietly finds strays, ones caught on corners of the coffee table and others that went further. They collect the pieces, ending up with the two glossy sides of the cover, what remains of the taped binding, and the pages. Yang coaxes her off of the floor, sits on the edge of the couch with her. “It's ancient,” Blake starts. “I…” She stares at the parts of her book, tears on her cheeks, hugging herself. She'd rather put herself in the dumpster than throw it all away. Yang can see it.

“Blake,” she says. Setting one hand on Blake's thigh, she touches her face, brushing tears away as Blake raises her gaze. “Do you trust me?”

The reply is immediate, with no hesitation: “Yes.”

“Let me have it,” Yang asks, searching for reluctance in her eyes. “I'll take care of it.” Blake seems surprised, but not unwilling; she nods, wilting into Yang's side. Yang brings her close, presses a kiss to her temple. “I'm sorry, Blake,” she says, soft and quiet. “This sucks.” Blake sighs into her chest. Yang is her comfort, always; her touch soothes every frayed and ragged edge of her heart. “Do you want to watch the movie while we eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to set it up while I get us bowls?”

“Yeah,” Blake says, a smile chasing away the petulant tilt of her lips.

“Okay, then you get comfy and I'll be right back,” Yang tells her, gently moving away to stand up. Blake catches her hand, tugging slightly. She hesitates, turning to look at her; rays of light from the windows illuminate the golden shine of her hair and her perfect face and the love in her lavender eyes. Blake touches her cheek, not gently because she thinks Yang will break, gently because she’s love personified and Blake’s words fail her when it comes to feelings like this. She kisses her, and the way Yang smiles against her lips is a paradise of its own.

The movie is up and running when Yang brings their dinner over to the couch, passing a bowl to Blake before settling down against the cushions. She pets Mr. Darcy briefly, making sure to not disturb the blanket he’s lying on as she pulls one over her lap. Blake shifts closer to her as soon as she’s still, tucking herself under Yang’s outstretched arm, eyes focused on the TV. Yang tries not to laugh, kissing her temple before digging in.

Blake could perform this movie by herself, if she wanted. Yang has to stifle her laughter as she mouths lines with the characters, deeply invested as always. It's more entertaining than the movie itself. (Saying they’ve watched this movie a lot is an understatement.)

Blake takes her bowl when they're both done eating to place them on the coffee table. She shifts when that's done, putting her head on Yang's shoulder and laying her legs across her lap. Yang pulls her close. "I love you," she says, pressing a kiss to her dark hair. Blake makes a sweet happy sound and takes her hand. She curls their fingers together affectionately, murmurs her reply and smiles.

Even if Yang knows the movie as well as Blake does, she knows Blake’s reactions even better. And sometimes, Blake cries at the end of the movie. It's never the same. She's usually crying by the _you have bewitched me, body and soul_ line, but it can start as early as _surely you must know it was all for you_. She holds her breath as soon as Mr. Darcy appears in the dawn light, her favorite song on the soundtrack playing, and only breaks whenever she starts crying. Other times, it's only a sniffle as Lizzie picks up his hand.

The one constant is a dreamy sigh at the ending, at _how are you this evening, Mrs. Darcy?_ That sigh and the stars in her eyes when Yang peeks at her face is the reason Yang can recite the lines of that scene to herself. (It's a dumb reason, maybe, but Yang is ready to call Blake _Mrs. Belladonna-Xiao Long_ whenever she is.)

Tonight, Blake just exhales and holds Yang's hand a little tighter. Yang rests her cheek on her head in response.

A few days and one trashy romance novel later, Blake is back to Austen. It's the hardback collector's edition, and she seems happy enough, curled up with her legs in Yang's lap. But there's a crease in her brow. Not a focused crease, but discontent. It hurts to see. Yang sets her palm just above Blake's knee for a moment, idly stroking the soft skin of her thigh. The show she usually watches during their downtime isn't keeping her attention; she reaches for her phone.

_How to rebind a paperback_ is the first search she makes.

_Where to get archival glue_ and _Where to get wax paper_ are the second and third. She pictures the absolute wreck that Blake's book is in.

_Do libraries rebind books_ is the fourth search. This is more useful -- she looks up their local library and copies the number into a new memo. For good measure, she searches _local bookstores_ and saves a few numbers from that as well. She’ll have to make some calls when Blake isn’t around. Yang glances up from her phone and touches her thigh again. Her hand rests further up than before, toying with the hem of her shorts.

“Yes?” Blake asks, eyeing Yang over her book.

Yang can’t help but laugh as she leans over to kiss her. Blake indulges her, though Yang sees a hint of a smirk as she draws away. “Do you want sushi for dinner?” she says, pressing another kiss to her exposed shoulder.

Blake closes her book. “No, not really,” she sighs, and at Yang’s raised eyebrows, she rolls her eyes. “I know. Shocker. Can we get pizza?”

“Sure. Do you want to go get it? The delivery times have been awful lately.”

Blake hums, pretending to consider it. “Only if you come with me,” she says, a sweet smile on her face. Yang mirrors it without thinking, enthralled with the curve of Blake’s lips.

“I’d go anywhere with you, baby,” she whispers. This time, it’s Blake who leans in to kiss her.

Yang doesn’t have a chance to make any phone calls for a while. She’s already home from the gym and taken a shower, sprawled across the couch and wondering about what they should do for dinner. Her phone begins to vibrate; she’s inclined to ignore it until she realizes someone’s calling. It’s Blake, and she smiles without thinking about it as she answers.

“Hey,” she says. “What’s up, babe?”

“Hi,” Blake sighs. She sounds tired already. “I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be home until later. I have a lot of reading to do, so I’ll eat dinner here.”

“No worries. Are you doing alright?” Yang tilts her head up, stares at the ceiling. Blake works so damn hard.

“I’m-- fine, I guess. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah? Do you have time to talk?”

Blake laughs, and Yang hears the rustle of papers and a book closing. “Sure. I’ll pack up and get food and we can talk.”

“Good,” Yang murmurs, her voice soft. Contentment nestles into her chest; its belonging is something she always marvels at. Mr. Darcy chirps from the hallway; Yang turns to see him. He stops to stretch as he goes over to her, a big yawn distorting his meow. “Your man says hi,” she says to Blake, offering her hand to him. “He just woke up from what must have been a good nap.” He rubs his face over her knuckles.

“Oh, tell him I love him,” Blake sighs. “He’s a good boy. Don’t let him be lonely.” Mr. Darcy purrs as Yang pets him, passing on the message. They talk for a while longer as Blake goes to get something to eat and finds a place to sit. She tells Yang about her day, about her assignments, about the dumb things her classmates say. Yang listens with a smile; Mr. Darcy curls up in her lap. She holds the phone to his little face so Blake can hear his purrs. By the time they hang up, Blake sounds so much brighter. She says goodbye and _I love you_ with an overwhelming fondness. It’s no surprise by now, but knowing that she makes Blake’s day better, lifts her mood with just a conversation, feels so special. There’s so much peace in their life together. Yang can’t imagine existing without it.

Yang pets Mr. Darcy absently as she sets her phone down. He blinks at her before standing and jumping to the floor, trotting over to his bowl and meowing loudly. “Okay, buddy,” Yang says, mostly to herself. It’s dinnertime for both of them. She feeds him before heating up leftovers and watching a show while she eats.

Afterwards, she picks up the ruined paperback. They’d put all the pages and pieces of the cover into a small paper bag, keeping it all together. She pulls it out, gently shuffling through worn pages. This book is more loved than Yang is even sure she knows how to process. It shows in every scuff on the cover, every crease that was folded, smoothed, and folded again, every rip in a page that was taped together. The text is almost drowned out by Blake’s additions; there’s fifteen years worth of added definitions for outdated words, scribbles in the margins, underlines and highlights in a rainbow of colored ink, sticky notes and tabs placed throughout the pages in a system only she understands. It’s overwhelming to hold what feels like Blake’s heart and soul in her hands. It’s even worse to have it in pieces.

Blake’s been through a lot. To say the least. Yang knows enough about all of it: the things Blake has told her as well as the issues she’s worked through, the version of herself she left behind, the joy in running into an old friend, the missing years in Kali’s scrapbooks. She has a feeling that the real sentiment to this copy is its survival of those years. That it’s a tie to Blake’s childhood self that she, or anyone else, didn’t try to torch.

Her foot taps a steady beat on the floor. She picks up her phone.

“Hi! Um, I was hoping to find out -- would you happen to have anyone who rebinds books? Like paperbacks?

Oh, okay! Thanks so much anyway. You too. Bye.”

Yang sighs, crossing out _library?_ on her notebook. She absently picks up a few pages, skimming through the endless annotations. There’s an exclamation point in purple ink next to a conversation between Lizzie and Mr. Bennett; it’s messy, made quickly, and it’s wildly endearing. She can picture a young Blake, lying on her back or twisted up into something that she claims to be a comfortable reading position, marking the page even though it’s difficult to move her arm.

Yang calls the next number, a local bookstore, with a smile on her face.

A gruff voice answers. "Tukson's booktrade, home to every book under the sun. What can I do for you?"

"Hi! I was wondering if you rebind books."

"I can do that, yeah."

"That's great! So it's a paperback and really badly damaged, like the glue came apart and the pages are entirely separate. Is that still salvageable?"

"I can do my best."

"Thank you so much. So, it's full of sticky notes and stuff. Should I take them out?"

"No, they shouldn't get in my way."

Yang shifts in the chair, tension easing out of her body. “I’m really glad to hear that. How late are you open tomorrow?” He answers, and she runs through her schedule. Everything is fitting together perfectly.

She takes the time to record annotation and sticky note placements, taking photos in complex situations, because the thought of something happening and ruining Blake’s layered notes is heartbreaking. After copying the publisher, edition, and publication date, it finally feels like she’s done enough.

It’s a few days later, the newly bound book retrieved and wrapped, that Yang comes home to Blake sitting at the kitchen table in the epicenter of a mess. There’s books scattered all around her, papers piled in free space; her favorite teacup balances precariously near the edge of the table. Her hair is gathered into a messy bun and reading glasses perch on her nose. She’s dressed comfortably, a soft cardigan on top of a “borrowed” shirt. Afternoon sunlight fills the whole room. She’s lit up and Yang loves her endlessly, settling into the chair across from her. She never once imagined that this would be hers. She’d been jaded to the idea of love since Summer died, since her father fell apart, since she understood what loss meant. She’d seen so much more of their tragedy than of their happiness. Love was for fiction. It was knights in shining armor and princesses and happy endings and it was absolutely not real. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t want something that didn’t exist.

She had made her peace with the idea of being unattached, of a quiet apartment with plants and a dog and a job she liked. The idea of _settling down_ in the way adults said it seemed implausible in the first place. She could have been alright with casual relationships, with cutting it off before anyone got too involved. Accepting impermanence seemed so much more attainable than building something permanent.

There’s nothing she’s more happy to have been wrong about. She could have had contentment. Instead, she has joy and love and more happiness than she knows what to do with. Her life is infinitely better than she could have ever dreamed.

Blake looks up, and Yang is resting her chin in the palm of her hand, doing nothing but gazing at her like she's every star in the sky. “Oh my God,” she laughs. “Stop it.” “What?” Yang asks, smile beginning to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Stop what?” “Leave me alone,” Blake says, unable to put any sincerity into the phrase, caught up in the love in Yang's eyes. “I'm not doing anything to you,” Yang teases, leaning forward. “I can, if you want,” she says, reaching over a textbook to lay her hand on Blake's wrist. “No,” Blake says, still playful but firm. “I need to finish my reading and you need to cook me dinner.”

Yang laughs quietly, shifts her weight back to dramatically flop against the back of the chair. “I can’t do anything until you kiss me. It’s a curse.” The wood digs into her shoulders. She closes her eyes for good measure.

“You are _ridiculous_ ,” Blake says, with no heat to it. She means _you’re a goofball and I love you_.

“I said what I said,” Yang murmurs, keeping it up. Blake sighs, equally dramatically, and gets up to kiss her. It’s loving and quick; Yang holds her closely for a moment before letting go.

Blake drops another kiss to Yang’s hair. “I’m hungry,” she says. “I’m almost done with my homework. Do you want help cooking?”

“Sure,” Yang answers, smiling as she stands up. “Take your time, though.” Blake takes her seat again; it’s no easy task to focus on her assignment instead of the love of her life in their kitchen. Blake finds herself distracted, but she manages.

She finishes her homework, helps Yang finish dinner, and ends up banished from the stove so she can’t burn anything. She sets the table, feeds Mr. Darcy, picks a candle from her collection and lights it. It’s so normal and so lovely. After dinner, Yang gives her an unusually soft look and tells her to wait for a second. Surprises aren’t her favorite. But Yang, as usual, is an exception. She reappears from the living room, hands held behind her back. Blake raises an eyebrow. “Here,” she says, leaning her hip against the table and handing her something. She watches Blake’s face with a careful sort of hesitance.

“Oh,” Blake breathes, taking the offering of a neatly wrapped square with both hands. She knows what it is. She tries not to give away her feelings, pulling at the tape as carefully as she can. A book is revealed as paper falls away. A ghost of a smile makes its way onto her face. It’s her book, a double of what she had, the exact copy and edition and printing. She turns it over in her hands, instinctively thumbing through the pages. The smile falls into shock.

It’s _her_ book. The familiar array of colorful sticky notes and tabs peek out from old, worn paper, handwriting in the margin catching her eye. The cover is the same battered gloss. It's no longer kept together with only tape and love. It's been repaired.

She raises her gaze, looking at Yang through a well of tears. For once, she has no words.

“I took it to a local bookstore,” Yang says, quiet. “I was lucky enough to find someone who would fix it.” She smiles, a blessing of honesty and affection, as she plays with the ends of her hair. Blake sets her book back on the table as her emotions become overwhelming and tears overflow. “Oh, baby,” she hears as she covers her face, and Yang’s warm hands settle on her forearms. She gathers her into a tight hug, Blake standing to embrace her fully. It's an achievement to make Blake Belladonna speechless.

She’s the crier in their relationship. Yang doesn’t understand it, will never understand, but sometimes Blake cries just because she loves Yang so much. This is one of those times. It’s a breathless kind of joy filling up her chest, something so loud and positive and bright and demanding to be expressed. "Thank you," she finds herself repeating into Yang's shoulder. Every repetition means something new. _Thank you for this. Thank you for understanding me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for choosing me._

Blake tucks her head against Yang's chest. The rhythm of her heartbeat is strong and steady and clear. It always is. Yang kisses her hair and holds her closely. To be completely loved is hard to process. They both know it.

Blake comes home while Yang is at the gym, unlocking the door and stepping into silence. She breathes easier in the quiet, slipping out of her shoes and taking her coat off. Her cat greets her in the hallway, chipper meows interrupted by an exaggerated stretch. Blake picks him up, smiling as she feels his fur soft and warm from a long nap. After setting her bag down at her desk, she goes to change into more comfortable clothes. Mr. Darcy, set gently on the bed, accepts affection when she has a free hand and meows at her when she doesn’t. Blake picks him up again when she’s cozy in an old hoodie of Yang’s and some shorts; she carries him back down the hallway to the couch. They settle in with a blanket and her paperback.

She reads for a while before getting distracted. Her book closes softly as she sets it in her lap, her cat purring louder when she strokes his fur. Their apartment is so quiet and still and peaceful. It’s so easy to relax. She takes a moment to enjoy it.

It's a little later when the door opens. Blake glances over and sets her book down. Yang smiles at her, easy grin lighting up her face. “Hey,” she says, closing the door behind her. “How are you?”

“Good,” Blake replies, watching Yang kneel to untie her shoes with interest. The muscles in her arms and shoulders move freely in her sleeveless shirt, only insinuating at her body underneath, long legs and all the strength there exposed. Yang cringes as she stands up, though, and Blake reaches out as she comes close to the couch, resting on the back of it. “Sore?” she asks, skimming her hand along Yang's arm.

“Yeah,” Yang says, quiet. She leans down until Blake can touch her face and meet her lips. Blake cradles her cheek, runs her thumb along her jaw, senses more than a physical ache. Yang's receptive, kisses her softly, seeking comfort. Blake's willing to give whatever Yang needs.

“I have to shower,” Yang sighs. “I feel gross.” Blake nods, kissing her again. Yang smiles as she stands up. “Be back in a few.”

“Make sure that sweaty shirt ends up in the basket!” Blake calls after her. There’s laughter and the distinctive slap of fabric against tile before the water turns on. She rolls her eyes and returns to her book.

Yang comes in quietly, dressed comfortably in a thin shirt and sweatpants. Blake quietly notes how _good_ she looks. It’s torture; Yang just exists and she’s a goddess. Even so, she can’t find any lingering pain when Yang nudges at her leg, settles to lie on her side between Blake’s thighs, puts her head down on her shoulder. There’s only comfort here.

It's rare that Yang is so quiet and still without being sad. She pauses, closing her book and putting it aside. “Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?” she asks as she pulls stray pieces of Yang’s hair back into order. It’s damp and Blake would braid it if she wasn’t at such an awkward angle.

“Yeah, I'm good,” Yang says, pressing her cheek to Blake's chest. “I just want to be close to you.”

Blake can't stop the smile that spreads across her face, can't stop the warmth that blooms in her chest. She doesn't want to. “Okay,” she says, voice low, soft. “You can sleep if you want to.”

Yang nods, adjusting her weight, making herself comfortable. Blake pulls the throw off of the top of the couch, tucking it around Yang. She exhales and her body relaxes. Her breathing steadies as Blake touches her again, cradling her head in her palm. “I love you,” she sighs. “More than I could ever tell you.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Yang mumbles. “I know.”

Her cat is purring from his perch at the top of the couch. Her favorite book is in her hands. Her life is intense and rewarding. Her favorite person in the world is falling asleep, head pillowed on her chest, safe and comfortable and loved. Blake's not sure what else she could ever ask for.


End file.
